


no real winners

by swishywillow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tribute!Clarke, Tribute!Murphy, Victor!Bellamy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishywillow/pseuds/swishywillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you wanna fuck him," Murphy says under his breath, smirking up at the crowd while she flashes the same wild smile, "I'd do it before the Games begin. You won't have a chance after." (Or, Bellamy mentors Clarke in the Hunger Games)</p>
            </blockquote>





	no real winners

**Author's Note:**

> Super special thanks to hawthornewhisperer, my multifandom bff, for reading this literally 500 words at a time. You are the bellarke fetish wind beneath my fanfiction wings. Thanks to andthisisthewonder on tumblr for catching all of my mistakes!

The armchair she’s sitting in is a rich, soft velvet that reminds her of the couches in the Mayor’s sitting room. Wells would never let her sit on them, wrinkling his nose because he said they made him sweat, but she’s always loved them — even as the apothecary’s daughter, it is nicer than anything her family could ever own, and she traces nervous circles into the fabric as her last moments in the district quickly slip away.

Clarke doesn’t expect any more visitors – her mother has already come and gone with shaking hands and tearful eyes, and her best friend has been dead since days after his own reaping one year ago – but Octavia Blake comes in with five minutes to spare, lips tipping up in a reluctant kind of smile that makes her sadder than she would have expected. They aren’t friends, not really, but they’ve sat together at lunch for almost a year now, the Victor’s sister and an engineer’s daughter, the man who’d been on duty when half of the district’s mines had blown up, killing hundreds of strong Seam men in a moment of supposed carelessness.

She looks smaller than usual without the dark, nondescript clothes she normally wears, wearing instead a pretty dress that Clarke knows came straight from the Capitol, her pale green eyes bright in the sunlight that streams in through the windows. There are rumors floating around the district that she inherited them from a Peacekeeper her mother had a deal with, once upon a time, the only thing that used to keep her kids from getting strung up every time they slipped under the fence that surrounded their district to hunt illegally.

“My brother knows we’re friends,” Octavia says suddenly, and her mouth has pulled into a thin, serious line. “He — you can trust him. He’ll take care of you.” She rushes forward just as unexpectedly, wrapping her thin arms around her in a surprisingly tight hug. Her dark braids press against the side of Clarke’s head, not moving until she finally hugs her back, and then she pulls away.

“Thanks, Octavia,” she says faintly. The younger girl shrugs, and then leaves the way she came. Clarke spends her last few minutes alone, _friends_ still ringing in her ears.

 

. . .

 

If Bellamy Blake knows he’s supposed to help her he’s definitely not showing it, and her mentor’s face is anything but friendly as he scowls across the table at her in the train’s lavish dining compartment. Their district escort, Tsing, is smiling warmly as she explains each course to her and her district partner, a boy Clarke’s age from the district community home with stringy hair and an expression so deeply annoyed it borders on murderous.

“When will we get there?” Clarke asks quietly. Tsing rattles off the number of hours, travel time between the districts one of the many _vast improvements_ made by the great and newly appointed President Cage Wallace, the recent successor after his father abruptly and mysteriously passed away in his sleep.

The boy beside her, John Murphy, groans loudly. “Oh my god, could you shut the fuck up for like, ten seconds?” he snaps, greasy fingers flexing around the leg of turkey in his hand as if he could use it as a weapon.

Tsing’s warm smile vanishes in an instant, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “You would do well to remember your manners,” she says coldly, the words sharp and clipped with her Capitol accent.

Murphy scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll try to keep my pinky out while I’m killing all the other kids. Manners, and all.” Beside him Clarke snorts softly, and his fingers flex again, harder this time.

“What’re you laughing at, Princess?” Bellamy asks sharply. It’s the first thing he’s said to her all evening but he sounds as if he’s picking back up right in the middle of a fight. “You think this is a game?” His hair is gelled back, slicked straight down to the stiff gray collar of his expensive shirt; she remembers when he was younger and still in school, when he wore it wild and curly, and all of his t-shirts were too big and carefully patched up.

Clarke shrugs, her voice deadpan. “Well, it is in the name.”

His frown deepens, and she’d probably be more intimidated if she didn’t remember the way he cried after every kill in his own Games five years ago, knuckles bruised and covered with blood not his own.

Murphy turns his wrath her way. “Maybe they’ll have some explosives in there, Griffin,” he leers, leaning into her space. He must have showered before dinner because he’s lost the dirty, unkempt look that all of the community home kids have, but up close his face somehow looks even gaunter. “You can keep up the family legacy.”

She reels back like she’s been slapped; the food sits heavier in her stomach than it did a moment ago, threatening to burn back up her throat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says hoarsely.

“Shut up, both of you,” Bellamy snaps. He pinches the bridge of his nose, grimacing. “It’s way too early for this bullshit.” In sync, Clarke and Murphy turn to glare at him.

Tsing sighs deeply through her nose, schooling her face back into something resembling pleasant. “The recaps begin in ten minutes,” she says crisply. “Finish eating.”

 

. . .

 

Murphy corners her in the hallway on the way out, fingers curled into fists. He’s wiry but he somehow cages her in, and she internally debates how worth it it would be to go ahead and fight back even though it’s against the rules. It might be a good idea, really. Show up to the Capitol already doomed. Bellamy sees him push her against the wall, dark eyes meeting hers, but he doesn’t stop it, walking away instead.

“Your dad killed my dad, you know,” Murphy says casually, leaning against the wall and looking down at her. He grits his teeth and lurches forward, hands mimicking an explosion. Despite herself, she flinches.

“That’s not what happened,” she hisses. “The Capitol—”

He sneers at her. “Fuck the Capitol, fuck whatever conspiracy bullshit happened. I don’t give a shit.” He steps even closer. “All I know is that your dad was in charge that day, and mine never made it home.”

“Mine didn’t either,” she reminds him.

Murphy is unimpressed, and when he speaks again it’s a promise. “Neither will you.”

 

. . .

 

She doesn’t remember much from the reapings but when she lays in bed that night she thinks about Bellamy’s, much more memorable than her own. She was twelve that year, not ready for her first time, and when she cried that morning her mother had smoothed her hair back from her face, dressing her in a faded patterned dress she’d saved from her own childhood.

 _Two slips,_ her father promised encouragingly, squeezing her close to his chest. _Two slips out of thousands._

And really, the odds had been in her favor that year — for the Third Quarter Quell there’d only been one tribute from each district, a reminder that the district’s numbers were small and futile against the vast resources of the Capitol. It didn’t stop her from shaking during Mayor Jaha’s speech, hugging herself as a smiling Tsing stepped up to single glass bowl stuffed full of small white slips of paper.

 _Octavia Blake,_ she’d announced brightly. She remembered that moment long after, everyone had, flinching every time the girl was called on in their classes for years. She’d been so small back then, the brittle, underfed look so common in the Seam. Dark bangs hung blunt across her forehead, unable to obscure the terror in her eyes.

Before she’d taken three steps forward a voice rang out across the square, _I volunteer._ A tall Seam girl had snatched her up, crushing Octavia against her chest to keep her from crying out as her brother walked up to the stage, the first in their district to make the journey of his own volition.

No one would admit it, but it seemed better that way — twelve year olds never stood a fighting chance but the boy on stage was tall and strong, eighteen and almost free, and the whole district seemed to sigh a bit in relief.

It really was a stroke of luck, she’d always thought. That it happened on the only year he could have saved his sister.

 

. . .

 

Her stylist is a pretty, ordinary looking girl named Keenan who can’t be much older than her. She weaves diamonds into her hair, paints the hollows under her eyes a dark charcoal gray. “Beauty in the ashes,” she says with a bright smile, smearing glittery black dust down the lines of Clarke’s neck and into the dip of her clavicle. Keenan’s assistant is dark haired and cautious, a quiet girl named Maya, walking around her in wide circles. There are sharp red scratches on Maya's cheek, and Clarke flushes guiltily when she meets the young girl’s gaze.

She is here to kill, after all. It's not like anyone should be surprised.

Murphy's in the carriage waiting for her when her stylists are done, part of her matching set. He looks at home covered in the black dust, gray eyes piercing through as he looks her up and down. He is dressed in all black like she is, shoulders and knuckles glittering with sharp silver studs. Bellamy stands beside the horse, stroking its mane. The look in his eyes as he scowls at her is more appraising than any other he's given her so far.

"Heard you attacked one of your stylists, Griffin," Murphy smirks. He glowers down at her from inside the carriage, not moving an inch when she hops in. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Guess you'll get to see for yourself soon enough," she mutters.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "You two will have plenty of time to tear each other apart later." He glares at them sternly, and Clarke is surprised to feel guilt at his exasperation. "For now you both need to shut the hell up, and at least try not to look so psychotic so I can wrangle you up some damn sponsors."

"Yeah I dunno, psychotic is kind of my forte," Murphy says with an unapologetic shrug.

Clarke scoffs. "Clearly."

Bellamy smirks at her, looking her up and down again in a way that makes her stomach churn. "What about you, Princess?" he asks, an eyebrow raised skeptically. Outside they can hear the crowd roar, the tributes from District 1 leaving the gates to begin the parade. "You any good at making friends?"

She flashes her teeth at him in a smile that is more feral than friendly, and he laughs darkly.

"Brave princess."

Their carriage jerks forward, leading them toward the opening. She can see Murphy glaring at her in her periphery.

"If you wanna fuck him," he says under his breath, smirking up at the crowd while she flashes the same wild smile, "I'd do it before the Games begin. You won't have a chance after."

She spends the rest of the parade with her hands clenched tightly around the handlebar, listening to the roar of the crowd as they shout praises. If she has to kill anyone, she reckons it might as well be him.

. . .

Bellamy disappears after dinner without a word, and he slips in hours later when Clarke is the only one awake, drinking hot chocolate and staring out the window at the bright, busy streets below. His hair is mussed, the buttons of his shirt askew, and he doesn't look embarrassed when she looks him up and down.

"See something you like?" He creeps closer in the dark until his brown eyes are illuminated by the streetlight shining in. He smirks at her once more, tugging up his hem suggestively.

She shakes her head, cocking her head at him in thought. "Just finally realizing why Octavia is always alone in that big house," she says.

All pretense drops; his jaw locks, a muscle twitching in his neck as he grits his teeth. "What do you know about Octavia," he snarls.

"I know she's safe." She shrugs, undeterred. Bellamy licks his lips, looking down at his shoes in the dark. "And she just made it through her last reaping and lived to tell the tale."

He stays silent, but his shoulders slump a little at her words.

"You've done everything to save your sister," she continues softly. "And — now you have the chance to save someone else."

Bellamy scoffs but there is no heat behind it. "Who, you?"

Clarke shrugs again. "Or Murphy, I guess. Kind of hoping you'll pick me. Octavia came to see me, you know. Said she thought you'd take care of me."

He is silent for a long moment. “Look, Princess,” he says quietly. He finally looks up, stepping closer to her to stare out of the window, his mouth twisted in a familiar frown. “I don’t know what you think you have waiting for you at home but — there are no real winners in this. Only survivors.”

"I just don't want to die," she whispers.

He smiles at her a little, his expression sad. "Not yet."

 

. . .

Murphy's too busy glaring at his eggs the next morning to comment on the change in Bellamy's attitude, but Clarke sees it right away, the way he is present and aware in a way he hasn't been before.

"You need to go to every station," he tells them seriously. "You never know what you'll find in the arena."

 _Or what you won't find,_ Clarke thinks. She wonders what it would be like to be dropped into an arena like Bellamy's, an underground bunker with complicated twists and tunnels and hidden doors. No weapons had been provided that year, a twist to keep the games going longer with only half the usual tributes. She doesn't think her hands are strong enough to kill without any assistance. The thought alone should make her sick, but so far she feels strangely clinical.

The feeling stays with her the whole morning; the minute they're in the training room Murphy deserts her, so she goes around to each station on her own, methodically tying ropes and practicing with swords. She's stumbling through the obstacle course with a gracelessness that leaves her flushing when a boy swings close to her upside down from the ropes above, the thick, wavy hair that flops into his face unable to hide his grin.

"Need some help, 12?" he asks. He flips himself down beside her in a move that probably would've broken Clarke's leg if she had attempted it.

She brushes past him, annoyed. "No."

On the other side of the room Murphy is watching her, and though she can't hear it she knows he's laughing. He's been hanging around the boys from 8 and 9 all day, and she's annoyed that Murphy of all people has somehow stumbled into an alliance.

"You kind of look like you're struggling," the boy persists, loping through the obstacles in a way that makes her furious. Clarke stops abruptly, eyes narrowed in anger. He's attractive in a way that definitely would have caught her eye back in the district, all smooth skin and charming white teeth. She thinks she remembers his reaping, only from the way his mentor had stumbled off stage when his name was called.

"You kind of need to get out of my way," she snaps. He holds his hands up in surrender and lets her walk away.

It doesn't stop him from finding her at lunch, though, dropping into the seat beside her and digging into the fruit on his plate.

"You ever see fruit like this?" he asks, deftly peeling a banana. "No way could you get this back in 3."

She sighs. "Don't you have a district partner?"

He grins, brown eyes lighting up. "Don't you?" he teases.

Clarke doesn't smile back. "Well we've been arguing over who'll kill each other first once the Games start, so inane conversations over lunch seem a little pointless. The fruit sure is nice, though."

The smile slips from his face and she almost feels bad. He doesn't bother her again that day.

. . .

Since their district only has one surviving victor and Murphy and Clarke are in no way suitable to train together, Bellamy tries to split his time in the evenings with them, which is fine with Clarke. The less time spent with Murphy the better.

Bellamy pulls her into the room he's set aside on the fifth night, and although they've been getting along much better since that first night he looks more irritated than usual, his hair sticking up wildly in all directions as if he's been running his fingers through it for hours.

"Why didn't you tell me about your ally?" he asks, dark eyebrows furrowed. She sinks into a chair across from him, nonplussed.

"Ally?" Her mind flashes to the tribute from 3 and she groans; he's still been following her around, recovered from her slight on the first day of training. "Ugh, is that what Murphy called him?"

Bellamy shrugs. "That's definitely not what he called him, but I read in between the lines," he says dryly. Clarke feels herself flush.

"Well he's not my ally." Her arms cross over her chest sullenly and Bellamy looks almost amused. "Just some kid who won't stop following me around."

"An ally isn't a bad thing," he tells her, less gruff than he was when she walked in.

"Yeah well, bad or not he isn't one," she snaps. The thought makes her feel sick to her stomach.

He shuffles through some papers. "Then why did his mentor send a formal request?" She scowls and he sighs. "Look, Princess, you're gonna need someone to watch your back."

"Until it's time to kill him, right?"

Bellamy looks startled at her outburst, and she knows the moment he sees the shine of her eyes she's been trying to control.

"Hey, Clarke." He approaches her cautiously, like a seasoned hunter. She wonders if he's been to the woods since he won. "It's okay." His hand lands on her shoulder, brushing lightly over her tight braid. His skin looks even darker in contrast to the blonde strands that have come loose after a long day.

"I just..." she ducks her head, grateful when he pretends not to notice when she wipes her eyes on the cuff of her shirt. "I can't get too close to these people, Bellamy."

When she looks back up the expression on his face is familiar, tender almost. She thinks about his string of allies, two boys close to his age and one very young girl, charmed by his handsome face into thinking he’d protect them. They’d all died, not by his hands necessarily, but he hadn’t been able to help them, either. He waits until she meets his eyes to slowly crumple up the paper in his hand.

"Whatever you want," he promises. "I'm looking to you, Princess."

. . .

She panics on scoring day and so she defaults to what she knows, identifying plants and starting a fire. Her real skills lie in strategy, but she's too panicked to show off, and so she skates by with a 5. Even Murphy scores higher, earning a 7.

"Glad your murderous rage has finally paid off," she says dryly as he sneers at her across the room, flipping her off. Tsing curls her lip at their bickering; she's grown increasingly transparent in her dislike for both tributes as the week has gone by, and it's become clear that Bellamy has no favor in her eyes either.

Their mentor disappears for a long time that evening, longer than usual, and when he stumbles back in it's almost dawn. Clarke hears him lumbering past her room and she opens the door; he has slumped against the wall, clutching his stomach. When Bellamy sees her he curls away from her, moaning softly.

"You're okay," she soothes as she heaves him up, leaning his weight heavily against her. He shakes his head so hard it rocks them both, and she sways for a moment before starting to drag him to his room.

"No I'm not," he whispers. "My mother — if she knew what I've done, who I've become..." He shakes his head again and she feels a tear drop onto her neck. "All I do is hurt people."

Clarke swings open his door and pushes him in, guiding him to collapse on the bed. "Hey," she says softly. It's weird, seeing him so vulnerable. "You've kept Octavia safe and — and you're gonna save my life, okay? I'm counting on you."

He looks miserable, eyes glazed as they dart back and forth. “I’m a monster.” He chokes on a sob and she remembers so suddenly what it was like to see him crying on screen, his face crackling on the small TV the Capitol forced them to keep in the corner of the apothecary. He’d sat for hours when that little girl died, crying and vulnerable and not even thinking of his own protection.

“No you’re not.” Clarke frowns. “Look, you may be an ass half the time, but I need you. I won’t survive in there without you, and neither will Murphy.” His eyes meet hers, black in the darkness but almost childlike, softened by thick black lashes and freckles scattered high on his cheekbones. She runs a hand through his curls absently. “If you need forgiveness, fine, I’ll give it to you. You’re forgiven. But you can’t run, okay? You can’t...you’ve gotta try. Murphy and I are fighters and you can get one of us out, okay? We can have another Victor and then you won’t have to do this alone. Okay?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, but he finally nods. “Okay,” he rasps. His hand clutches her arm tightly, and she tugs until her hand has slipped into his. She stays that way until he falls asleep, then goes back to her room until Tsing summons her to practice for the interview.

. . .

The lights are bright in her eyes, reflecting off the diamond studs that cover her shoulders like sparkling armour. Her interviewer, Vincent, is hanging on her words eagerly; on screens all around her she sees Finn’s interview playing on loop, the passion of his words haunting her as she tries to figure out what to say.

“All I can think about is getting out of there alive,” she says, and she’s proud of the way her voice doesn’t crack. The entire room is still in chaos, reeling from Finn’s confession more than a dozen interviews ago. All eyes have been on her since, ignoring the other tributes during their own interviews. Her face is red and sweaty, her hands shaking with anger and nerves.

 _I’ve fallen in love,_ he’d said helplessly, big moony eyes looking so obviously in her direction that it was impossible to pretend not to understand who he was talking about. The crowd has been uncontrollable ever since, and they wail at her protestation.

Vincent gives her a kind smile but the audience is having none of it, booing her words. She swallows hard, eyes landing on Bellamy a few rows offstage. He’s giving her a hard look and she can feel his voice in her head. _You’re losing them, Princess._  She finally gives in to the tremble of her lip, feeling her eyes gloss over with real tears.

“My father died, years ago, you see.” While she smiles tremulously at the crowd she keeps her eyes focused on Bellamy. He gives her a faint nod of approval. “And I just — I can’t let myself love someone I will lose again.”

The audience swoons in approval as her time ends; she’s grateful her interview is last, she can’t stand another moment dodging the hateful glances of the other tributes. Bellamy ushers them off stage, Murphy looking too disgusted to even insult her for once. Finn tries to slip into their car but Bellamy blocks his way, the look on his face dangerous. The District 3 mentor steers him away, her beautiful face ashen.

“Your ally sure knows how to work the crowd, Princess,” Bellamy says once the door is closed and they are on their way to the tribute center. Murphy snorts derisively and Clarke feels her stomach roll.

“I already told you, he’s not my ally,” she snaps. Bellamy just shrugs, lost in thought.

“Either way,” he says slowly, “We can definitely work with this.”

The jealous look on Murphy’s face burns in her mind, keeps her tossing and turning all night. She knows without a doubt he will kill her the first chance he gets.

. . .

Murphy isn’t around when she wakes up in the morning, and Bellamy forces her to eat. Juice and toast and sausage, enough to give her energy for the first few hours of the Games. And then it’s time, and they’re in the elevator making their way to the roof. Keenan is waiting for her.

"Clarke," he calls right before she boards the hovercraft. When she turns around his gaze is trained on her hands, and she knows he can see the way they tremble. "Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things. Remember that."

Clarke nods once, and then blinks before her eyes can fill with tears. The way he looks at her will stay with her the rest of her life, however long that maybe be — desperate and wild, like a hurricane inside of a human.

The door closes as soon as she’s inside, leaving it cool and dark, hiding her from the last piece of home she may ever see.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I have absolutely no idea how to make friends in this fandom, help  
> 2) my goal is to finish this in the next two weeks before I begin my first year teaching, and I respond moderately well to high pressure situations so feel free to drop me a line. if it doesn't get finished on time, blame HW for not being a strong enough influence on me  
> 3) I wasn't entirely sure if this has been done before bc I'm a hypocrite who hasn't read any THG!100 AUs, so I'm sorry if I'm stepping on any toes  
> 4) you can find me on tumblr: swishywillow


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